


Some Poppies Grow Golden

by umbrastaff



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Bittersweet, Gen, Post-Canon, i hope you like flower symbolism and vague sadness, the other refuge chars are also mentioned but i dont wanna clog their tags!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-28 14:07:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10112273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umbrastaff/pseuds/umbrastaff
Summary: Roswell flies back to Refuge for a visit. Seeing Isaak wasn't in their plans, but things never really do go that smoothly.A piece I wrote for a dear friend!





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Schgain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schgain/gifts).



“You never forget a thing do ya, Roz?” Ren smiles as she leans over the counter after listening to quite a well-told reaccounting of the events of a week prior. A short story about what had happened in one particular corner of the Davy Lamp at June’s birthday party.

They say their goodbyes (well, their see you soons) and Roswell heads home after making sure everything is safe and secure for the evening. They suppose Ren’s right - most of the time, anyway. Some things are fuzzy, as they suppose they ought to be, but others are clear as day. Right now what they see in their mind, as clear as the stars above them or the beak on their face, is the first time someone told them they remembered everything.

 

“Y’never forget a damn thing do ya, Roz?” Isaak sits, leaning over his ever-messy desk, propping his head up, hand to his temple and nursing a shallow glass of whiskey in the other. The golden liquid swirls as he moves. “Sometimes y’oughta.”

He doesn’t sound angry, not yet, just tired, a little sad (as usual) and his words slur a little. He’s probably had a glass or two before they even walked in. They’d say something about it only being 3pm but decides against it.  _ Best not press too hard today, _ they think, placing themselves with a clear, quick route to the door that isn’t all the way closed. This door, of all of them, sticks pretty often which they don’t like and Isaak often mutters to himself about it when he tries to open the door, other times he yells at it. Roswell doesn’t particularly like either outcome so they leave the door slightly open. They usually open it for him anyway, just in case. Easier that way, and they think he appreciates it. They can tell, because when he appreciates something he hesitates and fidgets with his hat, and when they hold the door open, he fidgets. He hesitates.

They can’t remember now what they remembered then, but they remember asking him what kind of things they should forget. They remember because Isaak laughed. It was low, it was as hollow as ever and his yellowed teeth hissed, but it wasn’t cruel.

“I don’t think even I can tell ya that.”

 

They remember that now, perching atop the well, listening to the rope below creak and the soft wind whistle through old windows nearby. They’re struck by how it sounds like his laughter. The genuine kind, at least. When Isaak made a point to laugh it was a hack - previously they’d described it (to themself, and later June, of course,) as a bark, but after hearing Magnus’ big, booming, barking laugh and meeting a few real dogs of various shapes, sizes and colours, they thought barking laughs were actually quite nice. Not like Isaak’s big laugh at all.

They’d probably fly off again soon, though they always came back, often with gifts. Chocolates for Cassidy, a book of culinary magic for Ren, silver-plated matching chain bracelets for Ash and their partner, a music box for Brogden, cute shaped cookie cutters for Paloma (though they know she could just use magic, it’s much nicer to have the tools, and the way her eyes looked at them oh so warmly proved them right), and flower seeds. Always flower seeds. Refuge wasn’t a place void of plants and flowers, in fact once the bubble popped the plants seemed to move in, sprouting in the pavement bigger and brighter than ever, but it never hurt to have more. June loved them.

They look down at an old whiskey barrel that’s been halved and stuffed with soil, in it is a large, happily blooming group of Mexican gold poppies. They remind Roswell more of buttercups than poppies, but then again there are a lot of kinds of poppies. There are lots of kinds of flowers. Blue, pink, white, black, yellow, petals of every colour and shape dot every part of Faerun, but the poppies Roswell saw first were red.

 

It wasn’t even a real poppy. It was a cheap enamel pin stuck to Isaak’s vest, worn plain to see over the flap of his breast pocket. It was a silly place to put it since it often got covered up or stuck on one of the side collar flaps. Roswell didn’t mention this though, giving Isaak fashion advice was a losing battle since day one.

“What’s it for?” They ask, one day in the middle of autumn. The sun hangs low in the sky and everything is a comfortable pumpkin-orange.

“Remembrance,” he says, clicking his tongue, “you wear a red poppy to remember those you’ve lost.” He states it as matter-of-factly as he does almost anything else, which is to say with a level of tiredness of a man who hasn’t slept in quite some time, despite Roswell often walking in on him snoozing on his desk. Even sleeping, though, he was cautious. Awake at a moment’s notice, when their boots clunked too heavily on the creaking wood beams below. They’d broken a section once, foot landing just a little too hard on a particularly old piece, then before Isaak could even get angry, or Roswell could make attempts to apologise, they’d been given the word to fix it. So they did. Brand new wood, brand new nails, brand new. It’s the only bit of the station that doesn’t creak.

The poppy is redder than Roswell is. Both the clay beneath their scuffed armor and the feathers on their stomach. They’ve seen pictures of wild vermillion flycatchers in the books Ash keeps, all their feathers are brighter than Roswell’s. They don’t know how they feel about that. Their clay, at least, is quite a shade deeper than the clay in the mines - not that they’re supposed to go down there. Isaak’s told them to stay well away, and they do. They only went once. Curiosity won them over in the end and they went down to look, just a peek.

“Junebug. Do not go down to the mines.” He’d said when they came back up, wet clay on their boots. He might’ve been angry, his hands shook a lot as he gave the command. Roswell remembers watching them as they listened.

“Okay.”

They didn’t go back to the mines after that. Not for a long while. Not until Magnus, Merle and Taako landed - but they’re long gone now, and Roswell doesn’t have any clay to compare.

 

Now, still looking at the poppies, they think of Isaak. They often do, they can’t help it. He’s down in the jail, sitting, probably doing a whole lot of nothing. There’s no one else in there, no one at all, just him. Just Isaak.

They haven’t seen him since they put him in and they left, other skies to fly in. They think about it for what feels like a very long time, picking their little red head up when the town clock chimes 10.

“Just for a bit,” they say, and sigh, fluttering down to the poppies, picking three with their beak and heading further into town. The lights of the Davy Lamp are on, laughter and music coming from inside, dice rolling, cards being shuffled. It’s a happy scene, but right now they aren’t headed for it. Instead, they fly by, landing on the windowsill of the Sheriff’s office, Cassidy - considerate as ever - has left the window slightly ajar.

They shake their head, promising to tell her about it on the way out. Squeezing through, they hear a familiar sound. Isaak’s snoring.

Flitting closer they see him and it’s almost as if they’re not really there at all. He’s propped up on the far wall, arms resting over his stomach. He almost looks peaceful. Roswell isn’t sure he deserves that. They land on the bars of the cell facing his, poppies clutched between their little claws, with a clink.

His head snaps up without missing a beat.

“Who’s-” even in the low light his eyes snap on Roswell in an instant. “Oh.”

“Hello…” They say, not entirely sure where they were going with this.

“What- what in the hell are y’doin’ in here Roz?” He’s completely caught off-guard, backing up further into the wall with a start, hitting his head on the side of his bed (an old frame hanging from the side of the cell, just under the window).

“Are you alright?” They ask but don’t move any closer, opting to shuffle a little bit on the bar they’re currently stood on to get a better look at him.

“I’ve had worse.” He says, it’s got a bit of bite to it but not much, rubbing the back of his head. It’s not bleeding at least. “Seriously, why’re you turnin’ up here, thought you skipped town.”

“I did.”

“But y’came back.”

“I’m visiting.” They say, as matter-of-fact as they can muster. They’re not so sure this was a good idea.

“Yeah, y’brought in gifts, Cassidy was stuffin’ her face with chocolate at my-  _ her _ desk.” He sits himself upright, not facing them directly, just looking on at the wall ahead of him. “Y’don’t see chocolate that nice in a town with no- what’s the word I’m lookin’ for? Them fancy chefs that just make chocolate.”

“Chocolatiers.”

“Right.” He grumbles, trailing off into an almost humoured huff. “What’s the point in only makin’ one thing? Who wants t’make that much chocolate?”

“Lots’a people eat lots’a chocolate out in Neverwinter,” they shrug, “it’s a big business.”

“An’ you’ve been to Neverwinter, have you?” He snorts in disbelief.

“I have.”

“...That so…” he trails off, scratching at his beard. He’s just as uncomfortable as they are, they suppose.

“I don’t reckon you’d like it there.”

“An’ how’s that?”

“Too big, too loud. You don’t like either of those.” They say, remembering a time when Cassidy came in yelling and Isaak was on edge all day. “I didn’t stay long.”

“Y’really do remember everything, huh?” He looks them over lazily, and Roswell looks him over too.

He’s tired looking, but he always was, his beard’s gotten thicker and is flecked with even more greying hairs. He’s not wearing anything too fancy, not that he ever did, but his vest is missing. No red poppy on his breast, no sheriff’s badge. Roswell feels the stems of the poppies in their feet, they aren’t heavy, but suddenly they’re very aware of all the little leaves poking out of the stems. They wonder, briefly, what he thinks about when he sees them and if it’s half as prickly and agonising for him as it is them.

“How, uh, how long are y’staying?” He says, turning his head away and looking at them from the corner of his eyes.

“Not long now.” They say, truthfully they’d wanted to leave today but as June asked so nicely they stayed another day. Tomorrow they were going to leave in the opposite direction they came in and see wherever the sky took them. Right now though, tomorrow feels like an eternity away.

“Goin’ all over, huh?” He sounds...jealous. Roswell almost finds that funny. Isaak, jealous of them.  _ How th’ turn tables!  _ Cassidy’s voice booms in their head and they almost laugh at that, too.

“Yes.”

“You think you’ll ever leave for good?” He fidgets, like he wants to say something else but God only knows what’s going on in Isaak’s head. He was an enigma, even to Roswell most of the time.

They don’t really have an answer for him, they don’t know. “I think I’ll visit,” is all they come up with.

“June’ll appreciate that, everyone else too, ‘course.” He sounds distinctly like he’s phoning it in. Roswell isn’t sure if that means he’d prefer they stay or go and never look back.

“Will you?” They ask, and instantly wish they hadn’t. The look on his face is an indecipherable mess of confusion, shock, and lastly what they assume might be sadness. They want to leave, pretend this never happened.

“I can’t rightly say,” he says, voice low and quiet. Like gravel slipping underfoot.

Things go quiet. Roswell hears the sounds from the Davy Lamp echoing down the street, music and they think that must be Cassidy singing her big old heart out. They’d like to go sing with her. The evening breeze whistles through the windows and dances through the wind chimes outside.

“You should go.” He says without warning or prompting. “You’re no use to anyone hangin’ around in here.” 

They suppose he isn’t wrong, but it’s still not what they would’ve liked him to say. They don’t even really know what they’d like him to say. They don’t move though, not yet.

“Junebug. Get on outta here.”

It rattles them. They don’t know why they didn’t expect that, in fact they’re shocked he didn’t use it earlier. A poppy floats to the floor. Blooming golden, softly landing on the faded brown of a creaky floorboard.

They flutter as quickly as they came in over to the bars of Isaak’s cell and drop the remaining poppies inside.

“J-”

“They oughta brighten you up.” They say, not looking at him anymore. “You look terrible.”

He looks between Roswell and the poppies for a moment, and it seems to last forever. The wind chimes sound outside keeps them steady, something other to focus on than Isaak. Eventually, he leans over and picks up the flowers and then he just kind of...looks at them.

“Poppies?” He sounds equal parts curious and suspicious.

“They aren’t red like your other one, but yes.” They pick a speck of lint out of their feathers, they suppose they can at least blame  _ that _ on Isaak. “For remembrance.” Truthfully they’re not entirely sure that meaning carries over to golden poppies - by name and colour they’d assume something about wealth - but they’re still poppies, and Isaak doesn’t need to know the rest.

“When did y’get so smart?” He asks almost wistfully, not really to them at all, looking down at the poppies as he twists and rolls the stems between his fingers, making the flowers twirl back and forth.

They don’t answer, they know themself they’ve always been that smart and they know Isaak knows it too. Instead, they make their way back to the window. They came in without a plan, and they’re leaving without one too.

“Goodnight, Isaak.” They say, landing on the windowsill with a tip-tap of their feet.

“....G’night, Roz.” They hesitate for a moment, waiting to see if there’s something else. There usually was. A cup of coffee he wanted, papers he wanted stacked and filed away, an errand to run. There was always something. “Junebug,” he starts, matter of habit.

They don’t say anything, spreading out faded red wings and making their way into the dark blue of the night sky.

They don’t know what they’re feeling, a mixture of relief and a deep-set discomfort that might as well have set up shop in their tiny chest, but they’re glad they went in. They’re glad they saw his face, old and tired as it had ever been, and they’re glad they don’t have to see it again. Not if they don’t want to.

They remember Magnus telling them about a port city on the Sword Coast. They think, looking up as the clouds roll in, about how it would be nice to see the ocean. They remember Magnus laughing, that big barking guffaw, when he’d said that it could be dangerous and they’d reminded him of the events that lead to them meeting in the first place.

Roswell thinks on it for a moment, eyes still up on the sky, and decide that’s where they’ll head next. But not tonight. Tonight’s no good to be alone. Without looking, without thinking, they land on a windowsill and knock. A light flicks on, a curtain opens, and June beams bright like the golden petals blooming gloriously below:

“Roswell!”

**Author's Note:**

> here's something i'm actually quite proud of that i wrote for my friend cecil! they wanted something with roswell and isaak and i was more than happy to drum something up!
> 
> thank you for reading!


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